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Their party was split up. It was full blown worst-case scenario: after an encounter with some kind of entity had gone south, the party's mage found himself completely alone in the dark of the tomb, using his staff to light his way as he searched desperately for one of his companions.

20 minutes of searching later, he flinched as he turned a corner into a larger room and nearly bumped into a large, muscled figure standing ominously in the dark.

Thankfully, after a tense few seconds, the mage realized that he recognized the still figure.

"Pride?" He called out to the party's paladin. His armor was gone, but they'd known each other long enough for him to make out his silhouette even without the shining metal.

Pride turned, standing in only a thin loincloth, his chin low and mouth hanging open slightly. The mage, against his better judgement, cast a spell to light the room better.

Pride reacted by beginning to advance toward him, his fur slick with sweat and rippling with muscles. His eyes were empty but focused, and the mage realized that something was possessing him, or controlling his mind somehow.

With practiced ease, he casted a spell of paralysis, holding the large, muscled bull mid-step while he thought of a plan. It was possible that he was only being controlled on the surface - his mind might still have been his own.

If so, that could mean he knew what had affected him, which would help tremendously in working out a way to reverse it. If not, well, it would just be silent.

He took a few more steps back so he could re-apply the paralysis if it expired suddenly, and then casted a mind-link spell.

It was far from quiet in the bull's mind. The mage was instantly barraged with a powerful voice, one so loud it could hardly be understood. He winced and tried to make it out - it sounded like Pride's voice, but different somehow. Like it was layered on top of another voice.

"Strength is servile." The voices said in unison. "Muscle is meant to be used. Your mind is a receiver for my will and nothing more. Your body is a tool for my will and nothing more. Your thoughts are gifts from me, your master. Your will is a gift from me, your master."

The mage struggled to focus on the words. They were... loud. They drowned out his own thoughts a little, even, but that helped to narrow it down. If Pride was having his thoughts manipulated like this, it meant some kind of psychic influence was continually affecting him. He just had to figure out the source.

"Your body is your gift to me. Your strength is an offering. Your obedience is your identity. You will serve me with your strength and your obedience and be rewarded with pleasure and purpose." The voices continued.

One of them was definitely Pride's voice. It was a disturbing realization. If it was a trick, no big deal, but if it was a strength is servile-

He blinked. He'd lost his train of thought. What was he thinking about? Pride's... internal monologue. If it was meant to be used-

He shook his head. It was impossible to focus with his mind linked like this. Well, not impossible. It was easy to focus on the voice, actually. In fact, he was pretty sure that even just three or four repetitions of the whole mantra were enough for him to memorize it.

He had a sharp mind, being a mage. He took pride in that.

His body wasn't too bad either. He lacked Pride's powerful frame, but years of adventuring had given him a toned and respectable body. It was a fine offering.

It... wait, what?

Had to focus. Had to focus.

Something was affecting Pride. Something was manipulating his weak, dumb mind, and turning him into an obedient vessel. It was dulling his thoughts until only muscle and obedience remained. It was making him forget who he was. It was making him give himself up as an offering to this voice. It was making him repeat the mantra over and over again as his mind grew emptier and emptier.

.

Pride resumed his advance. He wasn't doing that before. Something had stopped him from doing that before, but strength is servile, and muscle is meant to be-

A powerful grip pushed the mage to his knees. He realized far too late that something was happening to him. The same grip pushed his head forward and buried his face in the loin cloth.

It was overpowering. It stung his nose at first, and boiled off his other thoughts. His other senses we so quiet in comparison that his entire world became the bull's sweaty, hot musk.

No. There was something else there. Something he hadn't realized. His thoughts. They were quiet.

Not quiet - just, better. Less chaotic. He realized his own voice had joined the two repeating the mantra over and over and over. He was so glad he could repeat it in his head, so he could still huff this scent at the same time.

He had a fine mind, one that would surely make a fine receiver for master's instructions. He took pride in that.